The Slayer, the Bloody, and the Prince
by Silvarnin
Summary: Sunnydale gets some unexected visitors... (LOTRBTVS crossover)


The Slayer, the Bloody, and…the Prince

Author's Note: This fic takes place after Older and Far Away but before Dead Things.  On the Lord of the Rings front, this is after the War of the Ring and Legolas was visiting Lothlorien.

I know I said this is going to be a Legolas/Willow, and granted, that's kinda weird, but just bear with me.  You' like it in the long run.

Disclaimer:  I don't own Spike, Buffy, or Legolas, any of the scoobs or any other characters that are implied.  Any other characters are of my own fabrication and they do belong to me.  If you do ant to use any of them, you can, just ask first please.  It common courtesy, and asking and getting permission isn't a violation of copyright laws.  So be good, and ask.

Chapter One

The smoke curling from the tips of his cigarette reminded Spike of a grasping skeletal hand.  The analogy chilled him.  He chuckled.  _Bloody hell, Spike, _he thought to himself.  _Chilled by the hand of death._  The chuckle came again and he shifted his eyes from the quickly dissipated spectral claw to the smoldering embers of his cigarette.  Even as he watched, it burned near the filter.  He sighed, took the last drag from it, and pitched the butt over the edge of the crypt roof.

He laid back, hands behind his head, and exhaled the fragrant smoke slowly as he gazed at the stars.

_The scent of soil mingled with her scent in a harmonious symphony.  Her taste was indescribable, and when she bit him…drew blood…he lost his mind…his demon came forth with a primeval hunger…an appetite with a need to be satisfied…though it wasn't.  Not tonight._

His next coherent thought had been the fact that he should chase her as she ran away, leaving him to pant at the base of the great angel of the cemetery like a mangy cur, abandoned after begging for scraps.  His brow knitted in frustration and disgust…with himself.  He rolled twice to the side off the edge of the roof, landing nimbly on his feet.

"Why do I let her do these things to me?"

**********

"Why do I let him do these things to me?"

Buffy Summers had run.  Run from the thing she couldn't stay away from…again.  She put her hand to her neck, feeling the warmth of blood flowing sluggishly from the shallow bit wound there.  The combination of terror and exhilaration that wound invoked scared the hell out of her.  The reality of that wound…the fact that she'd never hide it from her friends, that they'd see her bloody collar, was the thought she couldn't bear…_oh, God, what if they found out…?_

**********

The picture tube flashed from a strange Chinese man selling a hibachi grill, past a "Bam!" from Emeril Lagasi, and landed on the smiling face of Carson Dailey.  The blond vampire slouched in his orange easy chair and watched as his screen was filled with the very sensual motions of Shakira.

_"Whenever, wherever_

_We're meant to be togeth…"_

The screen went as black as Spike's thoughts as he stood, angrily, a growl of feral frustration rumbling in his throat.  He couldn't do anything without being reminded of _her_.  That smile, that hair that laugh, _that taste._  He paced and swallowed the still-present taste of slayer-blood calling forth his demon, and causing tautness in his jeans.

The thoughts and emotions…desires the aphrodisiac summoned made his fists clench and a snarl escaped his lips.  He paced the floor like a caged lion, unable to be released from the captivity that was the love and lust for this woman of women.

Her persona raced through his mind.  Images of fights, real and erotic, collaborated upon him in a rush that filled every crevice and made every muscle quiver in anticipation.  His nostrils flared as he reflexively reached for scents, and he froze.

He was no longer alone.

**********

Buffy wandered among the buildings of downtown Sunnydale, not wanting to go home and having nowhere else to go.  Her fists clenched in frustration, though it was not only with the bleached bloodsucker she'd abandoned in South-Mills Cemetery.  Her anger was directed more so toward the one person she couldn't get away from.

As she walked, her mind wandered to that cemetery, caring her thought along for the flight.  She came to a shop window, where something in the darkened display caught her eye.  A black leather trench coat hung from this cords, appearing to hover, nearly a shadow itself, among the darkness beyond.  Her small-boned hand reached out to meet the glass shop window, though her thoughts were elsewhere.

_Their evening had started out innocently enough; patrolling the more out of the way corners of Hellmouth City.  She would complain about the vampire dust on her new suede boots and he'd retort that she shouldn't wear them slaying in the first place.  She'd replied with a playful shove and had run away.  He had chased her, she remembered, from the wharf all the way to the gates of his cemetery.  She'd been thankful that all he could see of her had been her back, for she had been grinning like a fool_

_He'd tackled her at the gate, sending the both of them rolling through the cold grass before they had come to rest against the base of the cemetery's largest statue: a guardian angel whose inscription read "All those who bend low here shall find peace and comfort."_

_The look that had filled Spike's yellow demon eyes had terrified her as she me them.  It was an expression of hunger.  He'd bent over her neck then and she'd felt the sharp, exhilarating pain of his incisors entering the tender flesh there, though, she'd noticed before she had thrown him off that he hadn't bitten too deep.  It almost seemed that…_

"It doesn't suit you."

Buffy jumped at the sudden voice, and turned to face its source.  She saw a man, an old man actually, dressed in a worn seat shirt jacket with the hood raised and equally worn jogging pants.  In the streetlight, his eyes glinted ice blue from under bushy white eyebrows, and a flowing white beard flowed down his chest.  She also noticed oddly that he carried a very tall walking stick with a gnarled top end.  "Huh?" was her only verbal response.

"The jacket, girl."  The man gestured toward the looming shade beyond the glass.

"Oh," Buffy relied.  Remembering herself, she quickly pulled her hand away from the window.  "Was there something I could do for you?"

The old man smiled. "Yes, actually.  Come, lend an old man an ear for a moment."  He turned and began walking, beckoning for Buffy to follow.  She looked reluctant, but acquiesced.  "Um, ok."

"What draws you attention to an inanimate object, child?"  He asked conversationally.

"What…you mean the jacket?"  Buffy asked hesitantly.  She was hoping not.

"Yes, the…jacket."

Buffy looked uncomfortable.  "Why does it matter?"

"There should not be a look of such longing in the face of one so young.  I also believe it is not that scrap of leather that you crave." A small smile played at his lips beneath his bushy mustache.

Buffy was getting more and more uncomfortable.  She was looking at the strange old man oddly.  _What is his big deal?_

He openly smiled.  "The one who pines for you does not know he is not alone in his pining."

Buffy stopped in her tracks and looked that the man.  "What…?"

The old man simply smiled again.  "You should return to him, Buffy.  He is in danger."

Buffy was about to ask what the hell he as talking about when she was startled by a passing ambulance.  When she looked back toward the man, she jumped.

He was nowhere in sight.

Spike could hardly believe what he saw.  The creature standing before him was clad in green and brown leather and stood well over his head as it glared intently down the shaft of it's arrow, seeming to have it's sights somewhere around his head.  That wooden shaft made his rather nervous, but the aged vampire knew better than to show such emotion, and thus mustered with great difficulty his most convincing 'poker face.'  The willowy creature did not waver, which was disconcerting to say the least.  Spike prepared himself to square off against it and it's almost overpowering aura of good and right.

"Are you Buffy Summers, childe of Joyce Summers?" it inquired.  The strange accent on the words was marked subconsously as 'a bit off' but was overlooked at the moment.  The creature had spoken…and why the _hell_ did it think he was Buffy…?

Spike snickered.  "Not quite, mate, but if that arrow's meant for her, you'll have to square with me first." He flexed his hands in preparation.

The other nodded and eased the tension mounting in its bowstring.  "I assure you, Adar, a shaft is not meant for Buffy Summers, but I must meet with him, for the matter is most urgent."

Spike raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "Him?  Whoa there, bloke.  For one, Buffy is _very much,_ a 'her', and for two, what business do you have with her?"

"My business is my own, Dead One." The green-clad one replied as he removed the arrow from its noch and replacing it in the quiver on his back. "Unless you are a part of her envoy?"

_Envoy…? Bloody hell! _"Yeah, yeah I'm her envoy." This was different. "Now what business do you have with…"

"I'm pretty curious about it myself, elf-boy." 

Both turned toward the sound, and there, at the top of Spike's makeshift staircase, was Buffy, daughter of Joyce.

+++++++++++++++++

So, what did you think?  R/R please??


End file.
